


Ballon

by Griper



Series: Their Mother's Child [1]
Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: If | Fire Emblem: Fates
Genre: Father/Daughter Bonding, Gen, Introspection, not my OC, written with permission as an experiment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-02
Updated: 2016-05-02
Packaged: 2018-06-06 00:41:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6730315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Griper/pseuds/Griper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Laslow finds himself the father of a second child with Peri. While Amanra is not the chip off the old block that Soleil is, he still finds the foundation for some common ground with her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ballon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [EthanJabs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EthanJabs/gifts).



> Amanra is the brain child of InigosDad, AKA PoisonJabs. I fell in love with a number of his Fates fan-kid designs (Amanra is my favorite), so I asked if I could utilize them in my fics. He said okay, so let's see if I do his babies justice. 
> 
> Take a look at his gorgeous art here:  
> http://inigosdad.tumblr.com/post/141701597920/so-this-is-amanra-pieris-daughter-she-is-a-very

If you were to ask Laslow to describe his lastborn daughter in a single word, he'd tell you that no woman could ever have her brilliance summed up in so little expression, and that any daughter of his would require an epic poem to detail all her worthy features.

If you persisted the point, he'd huff at you, consider the question, and eventually come out with "stately", or perhaps "lordly".

Because that was the essence of what Amanra strove to be; sophisticated, composed, dominant. And she pulled it off well.

When she walked, she strode with long, purposeful steps. When she rode, she steered her mount with little more than a thought and a flick of her wrist. She cut through the battlefield like a goddess of war, the enemy falling with each flash of her blade (and only the gleam of sadism in her eyes when she twisted her lance in the gut of a Faceless gave away the bloodlust she inherited from her mother.)

She was a born aristocrat, matching Prince Siegbert eye-to-eye in both physical stature and demeanor. Some days it felt like the whole rest of the army was humbled and intimidated to be in her presence. She commanded the world with her steely, aloof gaze, and controlled her own body with the same level of deliberation, an artist and a work of art in equal measure. (Indeed, just the week prior she had shown her mother an old stylized sketch she had drawn when small; depicting a tusked water deer leaping over the body of a wolf, the latter's throat slashed and laid bare. Peri had been so delighted with it she had sent a runner back home to arrange her house's old coat-of-arms be retired and replaced with a recreation of that scene.)

Such were Laslow's musings as he observed his daughter's lance drills when he muttered, half to himself, "Why don't you dance?"

Amanra checked herself mid-lunge at the utterance, turning in a fluid motion to face her father. "I beg your pardon father?"

"You carry yourself with such grace my dear," Laslow elaborated, a hint of a whine in his wheedling tone, "it's such a waste that you don't dance."

Amanra flushed at the praise, eyes turned down as a heated rose tint bloomed on her cheeks, "You hold me too high in your estimations father."

At that Laslow merely chuckled, and couldn't help but wonder at what histrionics he could expect from Soleil if he ever managed to trip her up like he had her sister (because Laslow, while willing to lay his heart on an alter for his daughters' happiness and fully admitting to his firstborn's superior charisma, knew all too well that Soleil handled being caught flatfooted worse than a rabbit with arrhythmia.)

"Not in the slightest my dear," Laslow insisted, "Dance is my craft and my passion, and when I see potential, it is because potential is there. If you're at all willing, I implore you for a chance to teach you."

At that Amanra looked up with eyes aglow. "Quinn and I traded shifts on the watch this week because she wanted to a chance to get Ignatius alone and badger him into wrestling with her. I'll be free the hour before supper, if that suits you?" She rushed to answer, eagerness bleeding into her careful probing towards the end.

Laslow just nodded, "Plenty of time to freshen up, I'll see you back here in two hours then."

\----

Laslow found Amanra just as he said. She stood slender and pale, shed of her gold-embossed cuirass and gauntlets, hands clasped nervously in front of her, and lips pressed together tightly in an only partly-successful attempt to suppress the smile twitching the corners of her mouth.

Laslow spread his arms wide, himself also changed out of his cumbersome gambeson for the evening, "Alright, let's begin with finding our feet."

That little preliminary proved itself a fine comedy routine; Laslow wasn't really a tall man, and Amanra was lofty by anyone's standards, so they fit together only so awkwardly in the traditional holds. Amanra's nerves kept getting the better of her as well, exacerbating the fumbles.

"Oof! careful were you swing your feet," Laslow chided, thankful he had kept his heavy boots as his daughter kicked his shin, "You really must relax my swan, your grace can only come to bear if you unclench."

"Forgive me father, this exercise is unfamiliar to me," Amanra blurted out, anxiety getting the better of her, "I'll get it right shortly. Our time together will not have gone to waste, I promise you."

At that Laslow stilled and looked up at his daughter, grown to maturity in a tiny little bubble in almost literally the span of a night. A single day for him was for her an entire childhood unfulfilled. She, her sister, their companions, all of them were robbed of decades and thrust into a time of troubles that should by rights have existed for them only in the distant past. Not for the first or last time did Laslow feel loathing towards himself for his part in this travesty ( _'blackguard, hypocrite, running off to join a fight not your own for the sake of a land you left behind; the children you don't deserve pay the price of your warmongering'_ ).

"You don't have to agree to dance lessons just to please me," Laslow said softly, breaking away from Amanra under the pretense of stretching, "Tell me what you would like to do instead, I'll always have time to indulge you."

"Oh, no, father!" Amanra assured him, "Dancing suits me plenty, I'm just frustrated at how hard I find it to coordinate myself."

"Oh," Laslow voiced, still self-admonishing, but mollified, "Well then, the problem there is something to intrinsic to correct." He reached up and bopped her nose, "You've too long bones to work with."

At that Amanra gave a burst of raucous laughter, "Astrid keeps telling me I'm too gangling."

"And Astrid is wrong," Laslow tutted, "You're not gangling, you're statuesque; an admirable quality in any girl, but for our present pursuits, it's inconvenient."

"The struggle in dancing comes from it's sustained demands; Movements must be made slowly and with complete smoothness, positions must be held in exact balance, and weight must be borne and focused extensively," Laslow regarded Amanra more critically, "You're well proportioned, but being that much taller than average cuts into the margins of your center of balance, and puts too much weight for the points of your feet to bear."

Amanra gives a sullen huff as her father goes on, "I can hardly reduce my own size father."

"No, but we can compensate in other areas," Laslow throws back, "Now we're gonna try a different technique now, this time I want you to watch my movements and attempt to copy them."

"You have exceptional poise Ananra," Laslow concluded as he took a pose, "It's time we capitalized on it." To that Amanra just nodded as she mirrored his movements.

Things went much smoother after they set aside the ballroom dances for a basic ballet. Without having to work on keeping her strides matched to her father, Amanra focused solely on keeping her arms and legs steady and held up. Her first attempts were wobbly, but she quickly found her core, and her movements became solid and measured.

The dinner bell rang out as Amanra finished repeating the routine, unguided this time, willowy form stretched towards the heavens and facing the sinking sun, single leg holding her up effortlessly.

Laslow clapped Amanra on the back, beaming with pride.

"Excellent form, my swan."

"Thank you for teaching me father," Amanra said, slightly winded, "I hope to put your tutelage to good use."

"Hmm, yes," Laslow mused, "To accomplish that we'll need to find someone who you won't simply step over on the dance floor."

Amanra could only scoff and roll her eyes at that barb, and together the two of them strolled off to find the rest of their family and conclude the day's activities.


End file.
